


with intense force

by owlinaminor



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble Collection, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Shiratorizawa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: a collection of shiratorizawa drabbles in honor of season three.





	1. give it one

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [力无不克](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10796427) by [Definro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Definro/pseuds/Definro)



> i'm super busy with school, but nothing can stop me from writing my boys.
> 
> send prompts over on [tumblr](http://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/ask)! i'll take as many as i can.
> 
> all of these are/will be unbeta'd. i'm giving becky a break.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kawanishi and tendou's first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by [this quote from s3e3](http://natroze.tumblr.com/post/152127432814/acekeith-blocking-isnt-a-technique-to-stop-the); title from [this song by maynard ferguson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IpoRdP4SXg)

“So, you wanna be a blocker, huh?”

Taichi turns around.  The person standing behind him – standing directly, immediately behind him, close enough that if Taichi reached out he could pluck the fire-engine red hairs right off his head – is one of the second-years.  Taichi remembers seeing him earlier, at the beginning of practice.  He doesn’t remember the guy’s name, but he remembers his voice.  Loud, screeching, like a siren wailing through the streets.  Not calling attention so much as _demanding_ it, expecting all of the pale fluorescent lights of the old gymnasium to turn directly on him.

The guy had yelled, at the beginning of practice.  Something about how all of the newbies were in for the time of their lives.  And now he’s standing face-to-face to Taichi, face contorted in the kind of grin that looks like it belongs on a monster in an old manga.  His eyes are wide, wide, wider than Taichi thinks any human’s eyes have the right to be.

“You,” the guy repeats.  “Kawanishi, right?”

Taichi nods.  He didn’t think upperclassmen remembered new recruits’ names.  At least, not during the first week.  Not before they were officially chosen, pulled from the heap ripe to be molded into parts of the Shiratorizawa machine.

“You wanna be a blocker,” the guy repeats.  He leans back, puts his hands on his hips.  Surveys Taichi as though he’s wondering what he’d taste like, slow-cooked over an open flame.

Taichi nods again.

“Watch this.”  The second-year whips his head around, quick as a polished sword, and shouts, “Wakatoshi!”

Ushijima glances up from a discussion with the captain on the other side of the court.  Wakatoshi must be his first name.  Taichi wonders if this guy is on a first-name basis with all the upperclassmen – or if this is just what he does, inserts himself into any place he’d like to occupy, taking up space until his presence seems as natural as the fire-red of his hair.

“Spike to me!” the guy shouts.

And Ushijima complies.  Grabs a ball from the side of the court, tosses it to the angry-looking second-year setter on the standing on the side, approaches the net.

“Blocking,” the guy says, “isn’t a technique to stop the ball.  It’s a technique to smack down the ball.  It’s making someone else’s point your own.”

The setter tosses, high and close to the net.  Ushijima rises like a storm cloud over a peaceful sky, raises his arm, brings it down heavy.

But the blocker is there, too-wide eyes flashing, cartoonish mouth grinning.  His arms go up like an impenetrable wall – no, like a battering ram – no, like a clap of thunder.

When the ball hits the ground, it echoes through the gym so solidly, Taichi swears he can feel the earth shake.

“Get it, Kawanishi?” the guy says.  “If you get it, maybe you can be a blocker here.”

“Nice one, Satori,” Ushijima observes, before returning to his place on the other side of the court.

 _Satori._   A grin that looks like it belongs on a monster in an old manga.  It fits.

It occurs to Taichi that he might have to work harder here than he thought.


	2. monumental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the current third-years' first time at nationals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, betsy waxing poetic about cities and friendship. that's new.

The first time, they go to Nationals, Tendou convinces them to sneak out of their hotel room.

“Come on,” he says.  “We have to,” he says.  “We’ve barely gotten a chance to see the city,” he says.  And Semi maintains that he’s tired, but he’s got that glint in his eyes that always means Coach Washijou will be lecturing all the first-years tomorrow, and Ushijima will agree to anything Tendou says especially if he pleads about it, and Yamagata is claiming he’s hungry, and – Reon is fighting a losing battle, here.

He wasn’t fighting all that hard to begin with, to be honest.  He’s been designated the voice of reason in this particular group of group of misfits since the second week of practice, when Tendou tried to sneak a live frog he found in the schoolyard into the captain’s jacket pocket, and frankly, it gets tiring.  He wants his team to be strong, yes.  He wants his friends to be able to go to afternoon practice instead of sitting in detention, yes.  But tonight – tonight, he wants to race down the hotel stairs and out onto the streets of Tokyo.

And so he does, and his friends race with him, and the city opens up before them like a pop-up picture book full of shops and cars and people.  Like a pop-up picture book only brighter, more colorful, more full of life.  No geography book or TV movie could have prepared him for this – for the city beating beneath him, vast and strong as a heartbeat.

Ushijima leads the way, and everyone else follows.  They realize, about fifteen blocks in, that he was just following a particularly large German Shephard and has no idea where he’s going.  But they push through, as they always do – they continue in the same direction until they reach a park skirting the city with leafy green.  The shadows are dark, the street vendors long closed, but the group goes in anyway.

_We shouldn’t stay long,_ Reon should say.  _We should go back,_ Reon should say.  _It could be dangerous,_ Reon should say.

But instead, he points at a bench up on a nearby hill, and says, “Let’s go sit.”

The bench is built for two.  Or maybe three.  Certainly not five.  But they make it work, jostling together like crayons in a box.  Reon ends up in the middle, squished between Ushijima on one side and Yamagata on the other.  Tendou has somehow gotten his right leg up so that it hangs across all of their laps, his sneaker dangling aimlessly in the chilly night air.

He starts babbling about some show he’s watching.  Ushijima asks the blocker one-word questions to keep him going.  Semi groans and mutters about how he should’ve stayed at the hotel, then digs his phone out of his pocket to photograph the lights of the city, dazzling just beneath them like a tangible daydream.

Yamagata nudges Reon.  “I’m hungry.”

Reon smiles, and opens the pack fastened securely around his waist.  He takes out a packet of rice crackers he saved from lunch that day, and hands them to his friend.

“Wait, what’re those?” Tendou asks, breaking off from his analysis of animation styles in mecha anime to lean over Reon.  “I want some!”

Soon, the park is quiet except for the sounds of muching and the occasional car horn echoing down a nearby street.  Reon wonders what time it is, then remembers that his phone is charging back at the hotel.

“Hey,” Tendou says.  He speaks quietly, for once.  Musing.  “We’re gonna win tomorrow, right?”

“We are,” Ushijima answers.  His voice is deep – vast and strong as a heartbeat.

Coach Washijou will give them the lecture of their lives tomorrow.  But right now, Reon settles back and closes his eyes, smiling wide.  They’re gonna win tomorrow – or maybe they already have.


	3. fanny pack fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a sale on fanny packs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this drabble is sponsored by columbia athletics.
> 
> and it's a little belated, but: happy birthday, reon!!!!!!

“Where’s Goshiki?”

Ushijima looks up from his phone to stare at Reon, unblinking.  “He is not with you?”

“He was supposed to be with you,” Reon replies, putting his hands on his hips.  “He’s your buddy.”

“My buddy?”

Reon sighs.  He glances at the signs on the street nearby, as though one of them might be a massive arrow reading, _CLUELESS FIRST-YEAR THIS WAY._   Unfortunately, none of them is particularly helpful.

“Yes,” he tells Ushijima.  “We all have buddies, so that we don’t get lost in the middle of Tokyo.  And now the bus is supposed to be here in ten minutes, and Goshiki is lost.  Lost and alone.  And probably scared.”

“He can take care of himself,” Ushijima says.

“Last week, he ran into a _glass door_ because he got too excited about the practice match –”

“He’ll be fine, Reon,” Tendou cuts him off.

Reon whirls on the blocker, eyes flashing.  “How do you know?”

“Because.  He’s right there.”  Tendou points at the opposite side of the street, where a dark bowl cut can be seen zooming around a corner and charging across a crosswalk, shoving innocent pedestrians out of his way like a gust of wind in the middle of a hurricane.

As he gets closer, Reon can hear him yelling, and he can see that there’s something on the first-year’s arms.  Or, not just one something – _many_ somethings.  Blue and red and green somethings, flapping in the wind.  If Reon didn’t know better, he’d think that Goshiki had somehow picked up an entire flock of birds.

“So he is,” Reon says.  “But Ushijima, don’t think that means you don't need to keep a closer eye on him.  He looks up to you a lot, and you have a responsibility –”

Reon is interrupted again, this time by the first-year himself.  He approaches his teammates, then stops a couple of steps away, still yelling.  (Forget spiking – the kid’s lung capacity is the stuff of legends.)

“Guys!” Goshiki shouts.  “Fanny packs!”

And then, the objects on his arms become clear.  They’re fanny packs – blue and red and green, made of cheap fabric, with adjustable straps and the logos of some tech company on the front.

“Fanny packs,” Reon agrees.

“Why did you buy twenty million fanny packs, exactly?” Yamagata asks.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Shirabu answers.

Goshiki shakes his head emphatically – his hair bounces back and forth, like brushes at a car wash.  “No, because they were on sale!  Five for fifteen hundred yen!  It was such a great deal!  I bought all of them!”

“You bought …” Reon says.

“All of them!” Tendou exclaims.  “Tsutomu, you’re incredible.”

Goshiki beams.  “Thanks!  So I figure we can divide them up.  I want the red ones, because red is our color.  And Tendou-senpai, you can take a yellow one, because it kinda matches your eyes.  And Ushijima-senpai, you should have a green one, because green is like plants, and…”

And so, it comes to pass that all of the members of the varsity Shiratorizawa boys’ volleyball team deck themselves out in fanny packs.  By the time the bus arrives, each of them is wearing at least two: Yamagata has three around his waist (one filled with chips, one with pretzels, and one with packets of juice); Tendou has five dangling from his arms; Shirabu has strung four together into a satchel; Kawanishi has doodled flowers on two with Sharpie; Ushijima has one hanging from each ear (balanced there by Tendou while the captain was intently focused on a game of 2048); Semi is wearing two around his neck like a scarf; and Goshiki has at least ten strapped to various parts of his person.  Reon, for his part, adds three of the packs Goshiki bought to the Shiratorizawa-purple one he always brings to tournaments, and fills them with tissues, bandaids, permission forms, maps, and other supplies from his bag.

Washijou takes one look at the lot of them, and tells them that if they don’t get those things off by the time they get to the stadium, they’ll all be sitting on the bench.  And, well, it’s hard to argue with him, even though Reon personally thinks his track suit belongs on an eighty-year-old local talk show host. 

The team removes their fanny packs once they get on the bus.  Their reign is triumphant, yet short-lived.  Still, as the bus starts moving towards the stadium, Reon turns to Goshiki.

“Hey,” he says.  “Thanks for buying those.  They’re going to be so useful.”

Goshiki’s eyes light up, as though he just scored the winning point of a match.  “You’re welcome!” he exclaims.  “I hope they are!  It sucks that they didn’t have more than just primary colors, though – I want a Shiratorizawa-colored one, like yours.”

Reon smiles at his kouhai.  “Maybe, if you become as good an ace as you say, I’ll give it to you when I graduate.”

Goshiki shrieks so loudly, the bus driver nearly crashes into a stop sign.

**Author's Note:**

> talk shiratorizawa to me [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor) / [tumblr](http://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/)


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